Trope Mash-ups Collection
by effulgentcolors
Summary: It is what it says - a collection of all the trope mash-up prompts I got on tumblr.
1. Turn me off for the Night

We start with **wilderness/survival + I Didn't Mean To Turn You On**. Set in dear old Neverland.

* * *

It is utterly ridiculous. _He_ is utterly ridiculous.

But the more she looks at the little halo around him-

" _Swan, are you, per chance, done staring now? It's just my bloody aura."_

" _Doesn't look bloody. Or like what I thought an aura would be. Looks like… a halo?"_

" _An angel's halo?"_

 _His chuckle is deep and deeply mocking. She doesn't appreciate it._

" _No. They put those on icons."_

" _Icons?"_

" _Saints."_

 _This time it's a full on laugh – gruff and a little dark but somewhat,_ almost _genuinely amused._

" _Well, I can assure you_ that's _not what this is. Or what I am."_

" _You don't say."_

\- glowing among the utter darkness of Neverland, the more ridiculous it seems. Not necessarily in a bad way.

Maybe not at all in a bad way.

Emma is convinced Tinkerbell did it at least partially to amuse herself. Surely there must have been another way for Hook to lead them through the jungle during the night without the Lost Boys seeing. He'd pointed it out himself. But the fairy had been adamant. The Lost Boys couldn't see a person's aura even when fairy magic made it visible to everybody else. And neither could Pan. Immaturity, she said.

Emma was genuinely surprised when the golden circle around Hook's head – _it's a goddamn halo –_ became visible to her. She wasn't sure she'd make it into the mature list but lo and behold.

Ingenious as it is, a shimmering halo in the middle of a black jungle is no torch or sensible flashlight. Unless she wants to end up as the midnight snack of the flesh-eating plants Hook was very graphic in describing – _the name is pretty self-explanatory really, the details were not necessary – s_ he can't take her eyes off it for a second. Off him.

One of the things she hates the most about Neverland is the fucking weather. If you can call it that. She just sweated her way through the whole day but now that night has fallen and they are finally, _supposedly_ , getting some rest, of course it's absolutely freezing. Even in her boots, jeans, tank and black turtleneck, and with a blanket over her, a shiver jerks her back into reality every time she is even close to falling asleep.

It sucks. It sucks even more because it seems like she is the only one either cold enough or not exhausted enough to fall asleep.

Her parents have it easy, sharing body warmth under their tent.

Regina has surrounded herself with a dozen fireballs, hovering in the air around her. She reluctantly consented to dimming their light – because isn't the whole damn point of not travelling during the night and adoring Hook with a freaking glowing aura to not be noticeable? – and merely sneered at David's mutters about "fire hazards".

Neal – _the greedy asshole –_ is hogging two blankets and has the nerve to snore under them.

And Hook- She looks around, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing to see better in the almost complete darkness. Perhaps Tinkerbell shouldn't have put an "off switch" for when he falls asleep. It takes her some time to make out his shape against the nearest tree – half-lying, half-sitting at its roots. And shivering something fierce.

He looks worse than she feels, minus a blanket, and Emma has no clue how he can stay asleep when she can see his body shaking against the tree bark all the way from here.

She would have liked it if the thought of just ignoring him at least crossed her mind. Just for a second. As it is Emma groans in frustration – _stupid pirates and stupid Saviour instincts or whatever_ – and gets to her feet, precious blanket in hand.

She doesn't mean to wake him, she doesn't really consider that anyone might wake up from simply being covered with a blanket when they've been sleeping through their entire flesh shaking around their skeleton just a second ago. But then again maybe she doesn't have enough experience with hundreds of years old pirates and their spidery – _pirate-y? piraty spidery? –_ senses because, faster than Emma can even gasp, Hook's eyes are wide open, his hand closed around her wrist.

And his halo illuminating the darkness around them.

"Swan?"

His brows furrow in confusion but his eyes and voice are completely devoid of the sleepiness and disorientation that Emma would expect and a part of her mind is stuck on the usefulness of his constant and complete alertness. Another part of her mind is stuck on the sadness of it as well but she does a good job of ignoring that part. By focusing on the glowing aureole.

"I didn't mean to turn you on."

His eyebrows rise high as if in place of the sun that's still hours away, his grin is far too smug for this hour of the night and – _ugh, never take pity on a stupid pirate_ – she sees the comment coming from a mile away.

"I assure you, darling, when you are around, that is hardly avoidable."

Being prepared for it doesn't stop her from rolling her eyes. She doesn't even deign to respond, merely points to his head with a deadpan expression.

It takes him a couple of seconds to catch up and remember his new nightly accessory and Emma would be a big fat liar if she said she wasn't shocked to notice the slight blush that he literally shines a light on himself.

"Ah, right, of course. Bloody fairy magic."

She wants to make a comment, she is not sure what kind of comment. Sarcastic? Not really. Light? Funny? _Reassuring?_

"Why did you… turn me on then?"

Right. That.

She gestures vaguely at his half-covered form, her movements awkward at best and flustered at worst. _Flustered._ She is _not_ bloody flustered, she is quite cold as a matter of fact.

"Ah."

He looks her over – suspicious, calculating.

"I appreciate the gesture, Swan, but I'm not taking your blanket."

It's the mix of heartfelt sincerity in the first part and iron conviction in the second that makes her stubbornness rise up – trained and ready to roll.

"I'm not cold."

But she is Emma Swan and it is just her damn luck that her regularly scheduled shiver makes its appearance at that exact moment.

All he has to do is lift that eyebrow again.

She hates his ridiculous eyebrows. And she hates the ridiculous halo that is throwing his beautiful – _ridiculous –_ face into such sharp relief.

"We can share."

If possible his eyebrow only goes higher but there's also a slight slackness to his jaw that her traitorous mind doesn't fail to pick on.

"I'm not sure-"

"Well, I think I know better," she says as haughtily as she can with her somewhat shaky voice. "In the land of knowledge and science, we've discovered that body heat is really the best way to fight the cold."

His mouth curves ever so slowly in the left corner.

"I assure you, Swan, exchange of body warmth is not something restricted to your realm of _knowledge and science._ "

He is mocking her. Softly and with what appears to be a genuine grin on his face but he is mocking her nonetheless. So she grabs her blanket again.

"If you have any other brilliant ideas that don't end up with one of us having hypothermia in a few hours-"

Hook gives a sudden tug to the blanket and for some reason, instead of letting it go, she follows it, nearly toppling in his lap.

"I think I've made no secret of my belief that you are the one with the brilliant ideas, love."

"Well, then maybe you should listen to me more."

"Oh, I listen to you plenty."

They stare at each other, illuminated by the soft glow above them, and she swears they are close enough to smell each other's breath and that's disconcerting for all sorts of reasons. So Emma just huffs and picks herself up before promptly plopping back down.

And just like that arranging things so that she is not _nearly on top of him_ but more like beside him, their sides pressed pretty damn close and covered by both his coat and the blanket, is surprisingly not all that awkward at all.

The light makes Emma a little self-conscious, a little apprehensive that they'll wake the others. But it is because she is so aware of it that she notices the slightly pink tinge that slides over the gold when she lies down next to him.

By the time she has talked herself into mentioning it, the light is dimming – a sure sign that Hook is falling asleep. With his knee pressed to her thigh and his head (and halo) just brushing her shoulder. It feels like it's radiating its own kind of warmth and Emma has to restrain herself from running her fingers over it.

She notices the flickers of blue in it two nights later when Neal snaps at him about getting them lost and not caring that Henry is somewhere out there all alone and a whole bunch of things that are totally out of line but that none of them contradict fast enough before Hook whirls around asking him if he wants to lead instead and after an almost full minute of tense silence mutters "didn't bloody think so" and continues on through the foreboding forest, his light moving so quickly and fading from sight so fast that Emma has to jog a little to keep her eyes on it.

When Regina is taking her turn smothering Henry with kisses and Emma is standing to the side and marveling at the fact that _he is here, he is safe –_ her eyes can't help but note the way the gold burns to an almost orange, illuminating Hook's own satisfied smile.

And some time later, on the way to the Jolly, when Neal has one arm slung over Henry and uses the other one to wave her over – _to complete a family that was never one to begin with –_ she can swear she catches a flash of green zipping through the golden light as Hook makes his way past them and ahead of the line to guide them through the last hour of night.

So it is just a theory and one she is not sure she wants to test – one she has more or less decided she is not gonna test. But then they're leaving and Tinkerbell is there and she is about to turn his aura off or whatever and she just… she has to know.

And sure enough, when she kisses him, there is a whole rainbow of colours dancing over his absolutely ridiculous – _beautiful –_ halo.


	2. Maybe 65

I swear these were supposed to be short OS or even drabbles. But here we are with nearly 4k of Detective AU + Awful First Meeting.

* * *

" _Hey, kid, what's up?"_

" _I'm on my way to the station."_

" _Oh. I'm not. I mean, I'm not in. I'm following a lead that might take awhi-"_

" _Is Killian there?"_

Emma sighs and stops in the middle of the street – two separate people bump into her, one curses her something foul. Lovely.

" _I think so but-"_

" _So I'll hang out with him and wait for you there."_

" _Henry,_ Detective Jones _is there because he is_ working-"

" _Got it. I'll be totally quiet and cool."_

" _Henry-"_

" _See you there, mom."_

And just like that her kid hangs up on her. Emma reaches up to rub at her forehead when her arm is jostled by the _third_ person that bumps into her.

"Fine, Jesus, I'm moving."

She tries to get her head back in the game. She _is_ following a lead. Well, if going to question Will Scarlet can even be called that. But it's worth a shot. Worth enough that she can't just turn around and rush back to the station.

And it's not like she needs to. She knows Henry is perfectly safe at the station with Jones. And Jones doesn't exactly mind when Henry hangs around the station. If she has to stick to the facts ("like a good detective always does, Swan"), he doesn't mind at all. On slow days he is even known to (though she is pretty certain _she_ is not supposed to know that) help Henry with his math homework.

Worry over Henry is not why Emma grows frustrated every time he spends time with the new detective.

70% of her frustration (Henry is currently learning percentages so yeah) comes from Henry's marked enthusiasm and obvious desire to spend more time in Jones's company. Because what good can come out of this really? At best, Killian is gradually gonna get fed up with humouring her kid and eventually their… relationship or whatever (god, she doesn't want them to have a 'relationship') will taper off and leave Henry with a vague but very real sense of disappointment. At worst, Killian is just gonna lead him on long enough and then just up and leave one day and leave Henry with a very acute and equally real sense of disappointment.

See? No scenario in which her kid doesn't end up disappointed. And protecting Henry from disappointment has been Emma's number 1 goal in life for all of the eleven years that he has been on this earth.

The other 30% are a bit more complicated. Or, to put it more frankly, Emma just doesn't like to think about them very much.

So arriving at Will's bar is quite welcome.

At 4pm the place is pretty deserted and it doesn't take the guy behind the bar too long to notice her. It takes him even less time to twist his face into a grimace that is most certainly not a welcome.

"Swan."

"Detective to you, Scarlett."

"Right. 'course. To what do I owe the displeasure, _Detective._ "

"Now why do you have to be like that? Maybe I just came in to see how you're doing."

"Ta, I was doing splendid before you came in."

"Now be a helpful citizen and tell me about those two bankers you had at your bar last Saturday."

"Bloody hell. Jones didn't say you were coming about that."

" _Excuse me?_ "

If possible, Will's face gets even more twisted up and now some colour comes into play as well.

Oh, that little shit, getting all up in her business.

"He might've called."

"To warn you that I'm coming?"

The guy's features seem to release a bit as confusion and slight suspicion enters his eyes.

"To warn me to answer your questions."

Oh. Well… it's still getting up in her business but maybe she can just yell at him instead of bringing out her gun.

"Well…"

Dammit, now she is losing her footing in front of fucking Will Scarlett of all people.

"Well then, will you?" she says with as much authority as her badge affords her.

"I ain't the one tending bar on Saturdays. Only heard about it from Ruby so if you'd rather get your information straight from the source – as I know you like to, _detective_ – you should come back over the weekend."

Ugh. Useless. All men are useless.

Without another word and a glare that hopefully says enough, Emma turns on her heel and heads for the door.

"Oi, detective. You mind telling Jones I like sleeping in on those weekends I'm not at work."

She doesn't trip over her feet but it's a near thing. And for the second time in only so many minutes-

" _Excuse me?_ "

She doesn't like Will's little _knowing_ – the hell could _he_ know – grin even one bit.

"Just thought he might listen if it came from someone… in position of authority."

Emma narrows her eyes and crosses her arms and really, really wants to keep walking but… the only thing more curious than a cat is a detective.

"What does Jones have to do with your sleeping in?"

She tries to keep her tone talking-to-Will-fucking-Scarlett icy and not I-do-not-wish-to-know-what-noises-Jones-keeps-his-neighbours-up-with icy.

And there's 15% more of her frustration right there.

Emma really, really doesn't need Henry hanging out with Killian Jones because Killian Jones is _damn good_ with kids and he is good with her kid and it's making her like him and she really doesn't need that. Or want it. She really doesn't want to like Killian Jones. Anymore than she already does.

"Alice seems to think that dawn is the perfect time for her to practice the banjo."

Aaaand there's your other 15%.

/

See, fact is Emma Swan and Killian Jones get along pretty well.

There was that one time he twisted his ankle while doing yoga so (after laughing her ass off for about 5 minutes because, of course Detective Killian Jones doesn't do jogging or weights or something as mundane as that, no, no, he does _yoga_ , what even is her life, or his life for that matter) Emma took it upon herself to deliver each file, document, meal or beverage that Jones might need or want to his desk.

("Where do you think you are going?"

"Swan, I just-"

"You are down a foot and a hand. Do you need to lose your head to finally learn to sit on your ass?"

"Good to know you're thinking about my a-"

"Sit."

"Swan-"

"What?! What can you possibly need to get up for?"

"Bathroom."

"…"

"…"

"Oh."

"…"

"Ok.")

There was that one time she had to go out of town for a case and, of course that's when Henry's school decided to have their Career day and Emma had promised herself that her kid would never feel the absence of a parent and yet here she was, states away, unable to talk about her "super cool and awesome and badass-" "language, kid" "job". Killian Jones was so helpful as to point out that he had the exact same job and worked with her and knew exactly what she did all day – "eat too much sugar for you own good." "hey!".

("So it went well?"

"Well? It was _awesome_! Half the class knew about _that case_ and even the teacher's eyes grew like three times when he came in and-"

"Kid, you might wanna slow your roll or I'd think you are _glad_ I wasn't able to make it."

"Oh. No, no, I-"

"I'm messing with you. I'm sure everybody was excited to get Sherlock instead of Watson."

"That doesn't really work cuz you're both detectives."

"Whatever, don't ruin my pop culture reference, I'm trying to be a cool mom. Did the teacher ask you anything? I mean why it was Jones and not-"

"Oh, I just told her you were on a case and he was your boyfriend so-"

" _What?_ ")

He saves her the bearclaws and she sometimes saves him the double coconut donut and yeah, Emma and Killian get along.

Except for the part where Emma knows that deep down Jones must hate her with at least 60% of his entire being. Maybe 65%.

Because Emma has had some bad first meetings – foster homes and police investigations don't make for the best of circumstances in which to meet people – but she has never _ever_ had a first meeting as bad, as pigeon-flattened-on-the-pavement awful, as please-Jesus,-Zeus-Odin- _someone-_ make-the earth-open-under-my-feet horrible first meeting as her first meeting with detective Killian Jones.

Jones came to her station some 5 months ago. Back then Emma had been at the job for less than a year – still among the youngest detectives in state history, mind you. Finding out that she would be working with _Killian Jones_ was… kind of a big deal.

Emma had done her research. Not that she had to really. There were probably few people in America who could read and didn't know who Jones was. There was definitely no one with a badge who didn't know exactly how much of a big deal working with him would be.

Emma was not ashamed to admit that _The Crocodile Case –_ as the media had eagerly dubbed it – was one of the reasons that cemented her decision to become a detective. It was also one of the reasons she knew exactly how dangerous it would be.

And the then-wet-behind-the-ears, expat detective Killian Jones, despite state and nation-wide involvement, had almost single-handedly solved one of the biggest and hardest cases of 21st century America. Emma thought the media loved that turn of phrase to an insensitive degree, considering that he had literally given a hand in the process.

So, yeah, saying that Emma was a little star-struck and excited to get to work with Killian Jones was something of an understatement.

And when he walked into the station on that first morning, in the first 5 minutes of shaking his hand and watching him be introduced to everyone, Emma thought he was everything she had imagined – confident but not too arrogant, professional but easy-going enough, handsome.

And then _she_ came in. A flurry of movement and wild blonde hair and a paper bag and "oh, you gave me your gross tuna sandwiches" and "where's my jam?" and "oh, there we are" and cheek kisses and little waves and then another blur as the girl ran out of the door.

And that was just it – she was just a _girl._ Couldn't have possibly been over 16 and suddenly Emma knew Killian Jones was just like every other man with a reputation he could ride on and she was angry, so very, very angry at herself because she had let herself be disappointed by a man she didn't even _know_ , she'd actually let herself be _excited_ about meeting the ass.

Emma was angry and bitter and she wanted Killian Jones to know exactly how _not_ excited she was to work with him and exactly how _little_ she thought of him.

And as it is with most moments that are later coated in pure mortification, Emma doesn't remember _exactly_ what she said but she very clearly recalls the words "jail bait" being part of her statement.

And what she has etched deeply into her memory is Jones's blue eyes icing over and igniting with rage at the exact same time and his tone dropping three octaves lower than it was when they were introduced and slicing through her sharper than if he'd actually stabbed her.

"What did you call my daughter?"

Yeah.

So…

15% of the reason Emma is frustrated with how well her kid gets along with Killian Jones is that she can't even look his in the eye without almost dying of shame.

Maybe a bit more than 15%.

/

It is a perfect demonstration of the kind of luck that Emma has in life that it's exactly one Alice Jones that she finds behind her father's desk when she gets back to the station.

"Hey, Emma."

Complete and utter mortification? Check. Relax features into something that doesn't resemble a grimace? Loading… Make voice a normal, non-freaked out pitch?

"Oh. Hey, Aliice,"… definitely still loading. "Um, have you seen Henry by any chance?"

"Yup, I was helping him with his art project."

Wonderful. Between the two of them the Joneses have half of her son's curriculum covered.

"But he was getting hungry so he and dad went to the bakery around the corner."

And they are feeding him.

"If you call them, I'm sure they can get you something as well."

"Oh, no, I'm-I'm good. I'll just be…"

She jabs her thumb towards her own office across the hall and hopes she doesn't look as awkward as she feels.

"Wait, Emma-"

She tries not to wince as she turns around but then Alice bumps her hip into the edge of Jones's desk and Emma does wince in sympathy, her hand reaching toward the young woman on instinct.

Thing is, from what Emma has seen and heard – and a lot of that comes from Henry because she simply cannot hold Jones's gaze when he is talking about his daughter and conversations where she is inspecting the walls around him with great interest tend not to last too long – Alice is a wonderful girl. A bit on the quirky side, occasionally on the I-found-these-rat-babies-and-their-mom-is-gone-and-yes-I-know-they-are-rats-but-they-are-just- _babies_ side and always on the quite loud and easily excitable side but, frankly, Emma likes her all the more for it. She likes Killian all the more for raising a kid like that because she damn well knows how hard that is and how often you doubt yourself and what a relief it is when you see your kid help a little bird that fell out of its nest (or a rat in Alice's case) and realize that you did _good_.

So she truly likes Alice Jones. She probably really likes her father as well. It's just that she is pretty convinced they must refer to her as "that disgusting woman that thought _that_ ".

It's fine really. Not like she hates herself for ruining whatever that whole thing with the Jones family could've been within the first 10 minutes of meeting them. At least the curse doesn't seem to extend to Henry.

And as she looks at Alice to see what she wants to tell her, Emma decides that she will stop trying to dissuade Henry from spending time with Killian. Her kid doesn't have to pay for her fuck-ups or be dragged up in her shame.

"You alright?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah. I'll probably find the bruise tomorrow and have no idea where it came from."

"That sounds familiar."

"Right? Dad says it's ridiculous that I can quote The Breakfast Club from start to finish but can't recall where I got all my bruises."

"Please, mysterious bruises are like the universe's way of marking off clumsy people. Your dad is part of the born-with-feline-grace club, he will never know our pain. Literally."

Alice laughs this uncontrollable laugh that has a bit of a snort to it and Emma beams back at her and thinks maybe it's not too late for them after all.

"You wanted to ask me something or-?"

"Oh, yeah."

Her face doesn't fall but Emma is a good enough detective to easily recognize the body language of somebody who is really uncomfortable and please God, don't let it be about-

"Iwaswonderingifyoucangoshoppingwithme"

"What now?"

She doesn't mean to say it out loud but really _huh?_

Alice, bless her, takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye in the exact same way Jones does when he is getting ready to "face the bloody music and firing squad at the same time" as he likes to put it.

"I was wondering if you could maybe, like, go shopping with me?"

Emma opens her mouth and then closes it again. And opens it again. And closes it. And her mind is completely blank. And now Alice is turning a little red and tucking her long hair behind her ears and oh, her ears get red like her dad's as well. At least she doesn't scratch behind her ear – it's such an embarrassingly obvious (adorable) tell.

("Some detective you are, Jones."

"And yet I robbed your overconfident arse in that last poker game, Swan."

"Yeah, you robbed the world's unluckiest woman, way to go.")

"Well, you see, we have this spring dance thing coming up. And my dad says I can pick anything I want and he said he'll come with me and help me find one but, I mean, ughhh, he'll probably want me to wear something floor-length and with a turtleneck. Even though I'm going with Robin – that's my girlfriend, have I mentioned Robin? sorry – I'm going with Robin and it's not like… and like dad's given me the talk 7 times by now and I mean, okay, but I'm dating a girl and… I mean, sure, of course, but 7 times? I actually counted! And Robin also said she can come with me but I kinda want it to be a surprise and I just-"

Emma finally catches up on all her blinking for the month and seems to have assimilated enough to stop Alice before she hyperventilates.

"Alice. Alice, honey, take a breath."

She does – proper stops and takes a deep breath and gives her a look that says "good enough?" and Emma just knows this happens with her and Killian all the time. It gives her a funny feeling.

"I… I mean, are you sure your dad would be ok with that?"

She nods vigorously and then narrows her eyes in a way that's both adorable but also surprisingly intimidating.

"Yeah, he actually said he'd ask you himself but I just knew he'd chicken out like he always does with you so I decided to just ask myself. Plus, it's my dress, not his."

Emma has to agree with that. She also has to restrain herself from asking exactly what "like he always does with you" means.

"Well, as long as you are sure and he says it's fine when I ask him," she gives Alice a look just in case she is pulling one of Henry's own 'oh, yeah, my mum would be tooootally cool with that' moves but she seems unperturbed (and like she is barely holding in her glee). "I'd love to help you pick out your dress."

"Brilliant! Thank you!"

And in the next second Emma has her arms full of a girl almost her size but with the excitement levels of her own 11-year-old. Honestly, Emma has to ask Jones what he feeds her. She wants a teenager this easily excitable when the time comes. Henry is already getting pouty when she hugs him in front of his friends.

Speaking of Henry. Of course this is the exact moment when her son comes in, one attractive detective in tow.

Killian's arm is slung over Henry's shoulders (and he doesn't seem to mind _that_ and Emma tries to make herself feel jealous rather than how she _is_ feeling – all melty and warm and _they are all so fucked_ ), a paper bag from the bakery tucked into his left elbow and Henry is in the process of saying something like "No way!" but then they notice Emma and Alice and her kid breaks out in one of those smiles that Emma takes special care to memorize and store away, if she doesn't have a camera handy, but then her attention is now divided between storing Henry's smile and storing Killian's slack-jawed, awe-filled gaze as he looks at his daughter in her arms and Emma should probably let go now because her hand is cradling Alice's head now and she is no longer sure who's hugging who.

Alice, seriously bless this girl, rescues them all from potential awkwardness by bouncing on her heels as soon as she has released Emma and beaming at her and her father.

"Emma's gonna help me find a dress. _I asked_."

She says it in this pointed way that Emma is sure Jones would normally have a couple of choice words or at least an eyebrow for but he seems to still be stuck in time and space and in the process of rediscovering the position of his jaw so.

"I see. That's… brilliant."

Emma really can't help her smirk, she can't, maybe the eyebrow is a bit much but if anyone deserves it it's Jones. And it does seem to snap him back into reality.

"That's very kind of you, Swan."

He clears his throat and keeps staring at her and Emma wants to look at their children to see if they are feeling the sudden tension in the air as well and she also wants to put her hands to her cheeks but she kinda can't look away from Killian's eyes – the struggle in them equal part obvious and confusing to her.

"It's nothing. I don't mind. I mean… I'd really like to. And you can still come as well."

She cringes. Of course he can come. It's his bloody daughter and he is probably the one paying for their shopping trip and it's so not her place and this was so bad and can she just stop saying things that make her pray for a sudden fracture in the earth's surface?

Except Killian's eyes light up and it seems that somehow – _how on earth?_ – she has said exactly the right thing because now he is smiling at her and putting the pastries on his desk and-

"I'm sure you ladies would not need my little informed and very male opinion. But I'd love to help with the jewelry choices, if that's acceptable. I like to think I have a knack for that."

Alice squeals a little and Emma is pretty sure that new jewelry for the dance was still under discussion until that moment.

"Perhaps," Killian turns around and puts the whole weight of his gaze on Emma again – it's not as heavy as she would have imagined, rather warm, actually. "Henry and I can come up with some extremely manly activities of our own in the meantime. And then we can all go for dinner?"

"Extremely manly activities?" she raises a skeptical eyebrow but her voice is full of amusement and she can see him lightly rock on his heels at it and damn, did they have work to do today or-

"I've been telling Henry about these model ships-"

Alice groans. Emma snorts. Henry cheers.

/

(It is not clear who is more mortified between Emma and Killian when Alice decides that the story of how her step-mom thought her dad was her boyfriend is simply _hilarious_ and perfect for her wedding speech.)


	3. Family Recipe

The Big Damn Kiss + Green-Eyed Epiphany + that tumblr post about the hungry pregnant neighbour asking for the delicious smelling food

* * *

Killian is somewhat ashamed to admit that he has become something of a take-out guy.

It's just… it's one of those things he never got back into after losing his hand. Like volleyball. Or playing the guitar. Or arm wrestling Will. Or the black nail polish. Or going to the beach. Or hitting on that cute girl at the bakery around the corner. Or girls, period. Or basically anyone he didn't already know before the accident.

But anyway. Cooking. He never got back into cooking. He was never all that good at it to begin with but it gave him a funny sort of pride and he enjoyed it.

He enjoyed having to go to three different stores to manage to collect all the herbs and spices for a proper curry. And lying all his products out – basically filling every available space and then having to push stuff around to have somewhere to actually _cook._ And chopping his tomatoes really fine – concasse, was it? – and his onions not quite because he did not enjoy crying over their massacred corpses. And – never to be revealed to another living soul – making a mini forest around his chopping board with the broccoli and the cauliflower. And the whole kitchen smelling for two days after. And basically making a mess of every horizontal surface – and the vertical ones that one time when he was learning how to spin pizza dough.

Yeah, he enjoyed that. And then he didn't. Couldn't. Didn't.

And now here he is, sipping his beer and scrolling down his take-out app as if he doesn't know he'll get the Chinese because he had pizza twice during the week and they've totally ruined the Mexican place and Liam says he is a masochist but he is not a 'take-out sushi' level of masochist.

He looks outside. Checks his watch. At least two more hours of solid daylight. He wasn't even hungry yet. He could get some tortilla chips to snack on while trying to see if his oven still works.

Really… what could happen?

/

Mrs Lucas has spoilt her.

It is the only reason Emma is even contemplating this. That and the fact that it smells _really_ good.

And look here, Emma is not one of those girls that needs to always get what she wants. She is certainly not _used to_ getting what she wants. It's just… her baby doesn't seem to have followed in her footsteps.

It might have something to do with said baby not even having feet to walk with yet. Or… she thinks – tries to remember what she's been readying semi-obsessively and then throwing under the bed as if the books are judging her for her singleness and brokenness and the general dinginess of her apartment – maybe it has feet already?

They're definitely forming but definitely not usable hence no following in any footsteps anytime soon. There. She's leaving it at that. Maybe she'll dig out that last book from under her bed tonight. After she has some dinner.

Which brings her right back to the problem at hand.

She is pretty sure that 5C is one of those bachelors that live on beer, pizza and whatever else you can get delivered to your door; has a football or poker night with the guys every month – see the football she is sure about 'cause those walls are fucking _thin_ and those boys are fucking _loud_ but she likes to imagine the poker as well ever since she saw the guy in this super slick vest that she is sure only people who can actually step into a casino and somehow manage to _not_ look sleazy own; occasionally blasts too loud music but not often enough to warrant a complaint;puts Netflix on loud enough and regularly enough that her broke ass is hoping she can keep up with the new season of Stranger Things simply by moving her couch next to the wall his TV sits against; never brings girls back to _his_ place.

Honestly, Emma is not judging (or stalking – the walls _are_ thin). She'd probably be giving 5C a run for his money on the easy single living, if she wasn't pregnant and broke and grumpy half the time and hungry the other half – which also makes her grumpy, and generally disillusioned with humanity and the world and the idea that one might actually be able to enjoy life and not struggle through it at every step and did she mention broke? She is broke and constantly hungry and constantly trying to fool her baby into thinking that he likes overcooked pasta and whatever fruits are on sale this week.

He doesn't. He likes whatever 5C is cooking.

/

This was a disastrous idea. The kind of disastrous idea he hasn't had since he was 4 years old and thought that if he puts snails on Liam's bed they'd stay there and not like… make their way all over the room that _Killian shared with Liam._

This is worse than snails. This is a dozen utensils in the sink already – because of course he tosses a spoon in the sink the second after he has used it _once_ , of course, why put it to the side and use it again when he has to stir his unholy concoction, and half a dozen plates – one of those in pieces in a trash bag by the door because your one hand being a slippery one is not the situation in which you want to be handling porcelain.

He has a sizeable cut on his big toe where he stepped on one of the pieces and his t-shirt is sticking to his back from the effort of grinding bloody vegetable – Jesus, he used to run miles without breaking a sweat and now blasted carrots are getting the best of him, and all he has to show for all his work is what he hopes is a passable mince.

Now for the mash. He still has three limbs and 14 uninjured digits to go…

/

Look, Emma doesn't have much but she has her pride, ok? And this kid growing inside her has made her relinquish her hold on that enough to knock on Mrs Lucas's door and ask her what it was she put in her cookies because apparently Emma – _or someone else,_ was addicted to it now and it was _not_ cinnamon. And that had transitioned into Emma becoming almost a firm fixture at Granny's on weekends and then into Emma busting tables for a month until Granny gave her a no nonsense look and told her she won't be doing this in a few more months, and after a week of asking and listening and string pulling and cookie bribing, she got her a job at August's bookstore even though he still grumbles that he doesn't like anyone else ordering his books.

And, yes, this all worked out pretty well but Mrs Lucas was the one that came to _her_ door on her first week in the building with a plate of those cookies that by this point Emma can barely look at.

(It's what she does. She falls in love with peanut butter and then eats so many PBJ sandwiches that now she almost gets sick at the mere sight of a jar on the counter. And she hears the The Kooks coming from 5C's wall and goes on to listen to them on repeat for two weeks. Mind you, not even everything but just Junk of the Heart because she is mental like that. And she starts Modern Family, when she still had a freaking Netflix account, and binges the whole damn thing in a couple of weekends and a few late week nights.)

So, yeah, Emma might have some addictive tendencies – the legal kind, and some impulse control issues.

But Emma would never actually go to someone's door – someone she has never exchanged a single word with despite sometimes hearing their voice float through her wall – and, yeah, he has a pretty voice but what's that gonna do for her? shitty people can have great voices, she is sure – to ask them _for the love of all that is good and holy,_ what they are cooking because it smells so fucking good and she has to know and she has to have something that at least comes close to it.

She'd never.

/

It's in the oven. It's over. Well, all he has to do now is make sure he doesn't burn the damn thing to a crisp. But if he managed to put it together in the first place, for the first time tonight, Killian thinks he can maybe pull this off.

/

It got worse. Worse as in better. Fuck, it got so much better. And now her stomach is grumbling and she has made for the door three times in the last five minutes and for the first time tonight Emma is coming to the horrible realization that she probably won't be able to survive this day with her dignity intact.

/

He is just about to dig into his plate – fancy plate set and fancy napkins that he didn't even know he owned and the second episode of American Gods queued up and-

There's a knock on his door.

Killian freezes with his fork in the air, eyebrows bunching together. Who on earth? He knows he hasn't invited any of the guys over and Liam knows better than to just drop in for an unexpected 'we are going out and getting you someone to go home with' visit by this point.

He waits. Nothing. Maybe he imagined it?

/

"There, happy?"

Emma glances down at her slightly rounded stomach and tries on her best 'mom look'. She thinks she'll definitely need to work on that one before the baby comes out because he is already too stubborn for _her_ own good.

She glances at the door with 5C on it one more time, raises her hand and then drops it again.

No. She knocked. This is a sign. For once the universe is sparing her the embarrassment and-

"Yes?"

No, of course, not. Why would the universe ever spare her anything?

/

She must be the one that knocked. 5B. His sweatpants neighbour.

Killian tries not to feel bad about the nickname. They've never been properly introduced and… well, he has mostly seen her back disappearing inside her apartment or her back going down the stairs with laundry or her back rushing below his window on a jog. So he's never seen her in anything but sweatpants. He's not judging. It's just… the only thing he had to go on.

She is in sweatpants now as well but as he looks at her to ask what she needs, he is taken aback by her green eyes. He is taken aback by the sudden realization that his neighbour is this young and very pretty woman and her eyes are the kind of eyes you can't help but notice.

It's… interesting. He has heard the soundtrack of her daily life through the wall they share for a few months now but somehow he never imagined the face and body that must go with those sounds.

As he thinks his gaze slides down almost involuntary and he doesn't know what catches his attention more: the fact that she is a few months pregnant or the fact that she came over barefoot.

The latter is truly endearing, the former a tad disheartening for some reason.

Not that he has anything against kids. Or pregnant women. It's just… it's not every day you realize your neighbour is a pretty girl about your age and currently standing at your doorstep. But he shouldn't have just assumed and anyway he doesn't really… that is… is she ever gonna say something?

/

"Lass?"

Emma shakes her head a little and wants to slap herself back into reality. You know that space and time continuum where she is not attaching _this_ man to every sound she has ever heard come through their wall.

(She is convinced he plays air guitar when blasting Bon Jovi hits and that his eyes blaze really bright when he is swearing at something about "bloody this" and "bloody that".)

"Umm, hi. Sorry. I…"

He raises an eyebrow. She doesn't really appreciate the mix of amusement and expectation. Then again, she is standing on his doorstep. He probably has some right to expect an explanation. Why on earth didn't she rehearse what she'll say if he opened the door?

"Did you need something?"

Fuck.

"I just… ummm, am I bothering you?"

"Not at all, lass. But, to be frank, I'll probably be more capable of answering truthfully, if you told me what you are here for."

The hell? Was he talking like that on purpose?

"I-"

Come on, Emma, like a band aid, nowhere to go now unless you wanna be the weirdo asking for a cup of flour.

"What you are cooking?'

/

"Oh."

Oh. Bloody hell.

Killian can feel his cheeks heating up and focuses half his attention on keeping his hand at his side and _not_ scratching his damn ear.

"I apologize. I didn't consider the smell might bother some-"

"No. No, no, no. I like it! So… I was wondering what it was."

She likes it? That timid feeling of pride he felt when he took his dinner out of the over and it _wasn't_ burn to a crisp grows three times.

"It's just a shepherd's pie. Slightly altered recipe. My mum's. Supposedly, probably mucked it up along the way and it's twice altered now but yeah… Shepherd's pie."

"Oh."

/

Great. She was hoping for something along the lines of a lasagna. Then maaaybe she could've bought some frozen crappy version from the supermarket and tried to cheat her body into thinking it was the real thing.

But no, of course, not. It had to be shepherd's pie. Family recipe edition. Just her damn luck.

"Well, thanks. And sorry! I was just… curious. Sorry to bother you."

/

She turns to go and this might have been the most bizarre conversation he's had this month. Including that guy on the underground with the orange hair.

Did she just want to know what the smell invading her home was? She did say she liked it. Maybe-

She is already half to her door so Killian just thinks to hell with it.

"Would you like some?"

He sees her stop dead in her tracks and cringes, hoping he isn't now the biggest weirdo of her month. And not in a good way.

The blonde turns around and he knows the second he sees her face that she would indeed like some. But Killian likes to think of himself as at least moderately intelligent so he keeps his smile to himself and instead prepares for the distrust in her eyes that is obviously warring with her appetite.

"Do you usually offer food to unknown women who come knocking on your door?"

"I can't say, you are the first."

He doesn't actually see her cheeks change colour but then again he thinks it might be because she has been blushing this entire time.

"I didn't mean to bother-"

"It's no bother, love. Truly. Now that I feel knowledgeable enough about your intensions to say so."

She rolls her pretty green eyes in a way that has his pulse speeding up a bit.

"Plus I just made a dish more people share with a family of four. For myself. I think I can spare whatever _you_ can eat."

It's a gamble that pays off when he sees her eyes blaze up and let's himself grin at her teasingly.

"I'm sorry, was that a challenge to how much I can eat?"

He steps aside and waves her in.

She only hesitates for a second.

/

OK, first of all, his apartment is waaay better than hers like, both bigger and with more natural light coming in but also simply more tidy and colour-coordinated. Also, if possible, it smells even better inside and Emma's eyes immediately zero in on the dish on the kitchen counter.

She hears 5C chuckle behind her and tries not to feel even more embarrassed. Her capacity for it must be running out by this point. Thankfully, he doesn't make a comment but just moves around his kitchen island and takes out a plastic food container. IKEA guy. Cute.

It probably takes her a bit longer than it should – what with her still mostly trying to pretend she is not hustling her nice and pretty neighbour for food – but eventually Emma notices the peculiar way he moves around his kitchen and operates only with his right hand. A quick inspection proves that it is because he simply has no left one to assist him.

"No shit!"

The guy startles at her words and turns around and probably follows her gaze because in the next moment the limb is tucked slightly behind him and he is giving her a tense smile.

"Shit, I'm afraid."

She honest to God covers her mouth. Better late than never. Or not.

"Shit. I mean, sorry! Sorry. I wasn't- I was just- you cook?!"

5C frowns at her as if her person skills are something that would only befit a visiting alien. He's got her there.

"Sorry. Again. But, like, I can't cook for shit even with two hands."

To be fair, the crap products she can afford probably have something to do with it but Emma is gonna be a single mom pretty soon and she is pretty sure that "to be fair"s won't cut it when she has to cook for her kid.

But makes-food-that-smells-illegally-good-single-handedly neighbour seems to relax a little.

Foot – partially out of mouth.

/

Killian tries to unbunch the muscles in his neck and not keep his right side weirdly angled towards her. It's fine. Really, it's fine. She was bound to notice eventually.

"To be honest, this is my first try in quite some time."

"Seriously?"

"Indeed. So if you get food poisoning or something, I'm not to be held accountable."

The thought gives him pause and he turns to her with his eyebrows all drawn together and almost reluctant to hand her the container in his hand.

"Actually, are you allergic to anything? I mean… I don't think there's anything too weird in it and everything I used was fresh but-"

He can't help but glance down at her stomach. Gods, she _is_ pregnant, right? This will be just the kind of thing-

But the blonde's hand comes up to her stomach and she smiles at him almost shyly and Killian breathes out a quiet sigh of relief.

"I'm sure it will be fine. I mean, the things I've been feeding myself… I'm pretty sure someone might get a bit of a shock from the home-cooked food but definitely not the bad kind."

He tries not to overanalyze the "feeding myself" part and instead nods and finally hands the container with half of his shepherd's pie inside.

"Whoa. You really are challenging me."

He laughs and dips his head to the side to admire the way her eyes widen a little.

"It should keep for a couple of days if you put it in the fridge. And you can always just feed it to Smee."

"Smee?"

"Oh."

His cold ring grazes his earlobe and dammit, he forgot to watch out for the damn tick.

"I named the cat that always hangs around behind the building."

"Oooh, ok. And hell no."

She hugs the food to her chest almost protectively and Killian laughs again and bloody hell, is he coming across too giggly or something? What else can he say? He-

"Well, I should probably let you finally eat your dinner. Whatever you have left," she beats him to it and juts her thumb at the door and he can't really do anything but nod.

/

She is already stepping outside, teeth embedded in her lip and _what do you say to the cute neighbour that fed you dinner but not in the date sense?_

"Oh. I'm Emma, by the way. Emma Swan."

His eyes light up and Emma finally gets to put a mark in the 'didn't fuck it up' column.

"Pleasure to meet you, Swan. Killian Jones. Always at your service, though I must warn you, my culinary repertoire is quite limited."

Killian Jones with the fancy words and delicious food. Fuck.

/

She uses her employee discount on something other than baby books for the first time.

He finds the book waiting for him outside his door. The post-it note says "This is why people like home-cooked food. Who knew." And the book is Neil Gaiman's _Fragile Things_ and it takes him a moment to connect the dots and remember that he was watching Amarican Gods the other night and, yeah, maybe it makes him feel kinda good that Emma Swan noticed and remembered that.

/

He tries some Mexican next and it's 100% because his favourite place has gone to crap and not at all because he once saw their delivery guy in front of 5B.

She opens the door and his face is half-obscured by an IKEA container and he says it's just a not so subtle reminder that she hasn't returned the other one yet and she pretends to believe him.

/

She reasons that you can't return food containers empty so she tries to bake muffins because muffins are supposed to be easy.

He hears the fire alarm and five second later he is banging on her door and having a very flustered Emma Swan dragging him inside and pointing at her oven or what can be seen of it behind the cloud of smoke and explaining how it's all his fault.

/

He's been looking for a not food-related reason to knock on her door for a week and coming up empty and he is damn rusty when it comes to talking to pretty girls but then again she is pregnant and the fact that he didn't see a naked man in the middle of her kitchen the one time he was there for 10 minutes doesn't mean anything so maybe that's for the best.

She knocks on his door a day after Stranger Things comes out with three bags of popcorn, explaining that only one of them is for him, obviously.

/

She lives to binge and yet here she is trying to stretch an 8-episode season over more than a week.

He honestly debates calling Netflix and begging them to somehow _somehow_ release more episodes of their damn show.

/

He has been this scared exactly once in his entire life and that situation included headlights coming straight at him.

She has a freaking stomach ache, probably from too much popcorn, and she is almost as embarrassed when she comes out of the doctor's office as she was that first night she knocked on his door but Killian doesn't really seem to care _how_ she is ok as long as she is.

/

She is scrolling through her Instagram at work and she is so bored and distracted that she almost misses it but then she goes back and blinks and then goes to the account to check this is not some sort of ridiculous surveillance thing or she doesn't even know what – but sure enough, there – on cutestparentstobe, is a picture of her very pregnant self, eating ice-cream on the beach with one Killian Jones.

He doesn't know how he worms his way into a doctor's appointment, he just knows that when the nurse calls him "daddy" Emma kinda sputters but doesn't say anything to contradict her and he sure as hell keeps his trap shut and just smiles and nods when they give him an ultrasound picture all for himself.

/

They've been doing whatever they are doing for 4 freaking months and within the first couple of weeks they were already using like only 30% of his couch for the both of them and in a month they started venturing outside the bubble of their apartments and Emma _never_ thought she'd be the hand-holding type but yeah, they kinda hold hands all the time and they hug, like, every day and they text all the freaking time while they are at work and she meets Liam when she is 7 months pregnant and convinced that he is gonna hate her on sight for saddling his little brother with herself and he doesn't really but he also doesn't seem to love her on sight and Killian is very pointedly unamused by the lukewarm reception but honestly, Emma is just glad to be given a chance here, and he goes shopping for baby stuff she can barely afford with her and then he goes shopping for baby stuff by himself and she gets kinda angry and they kinda break up or whatever at least twice, basically each time Emma decides that this is ridiculous and he can't just date a girl that is having another guy's baby and that's twice the size she should be and that he's only known for a few months and one night Killian lines up four freaking shepherd's pies outside her door and if she even keeps her door closed to _that_ then she must be dead in there and one night he lets it slip about these therapy sessions that he is supposed to go to but doesn't and she basically makes an appointment for him and drags him out of the door and maybe threatens him with not coming to her doctor's appointments anymore, if he doesn't go to his.

And through all _that_ and then some, they never actually kiss.

Sure he kisses her cheek when he wishes her goodnight and she kisses his head when he falls asleep on her during Lord of the Rings and he kisses her hand placatingly every time he tries to dissuade her from helping him with dinner and she kisses his forearm in the park that one time he freaks out on her because she is on his left side and goes to hold his arm and he kisses her stomach the first time she grabs his hand and lets him feel the baby kicking but-

They've never _properly_ kiss and it's this last frontier and maybe he is waiting for her to cross it but she just can't seem to.

And then she is giving birth and _he is there when she is giving birth and they haven't even kissed._

And then there's Henry and they both kiss _him_ plenty but-

/

they don't kiss when Killian refuses to hold her baby and she is hurt and offended and so confused and kinda angry and then he says he can't, he can't hold him with one hand and she is just sad and, yeah, maybe still kinda angry but also eerily calm as she bents Killian's elbow and gives him the kind of look that makes him shut his mouth audibly and places her son in his arms

they don't kiss when Killian barges in on her breastfeeding and twirls around on the spot, slapping a hand over his face and sputtering apologies while all she can do is laugh and laugh and tell him to stop acting like her tits are a big deal and make her a cup of that crappy decaf coffee and he does and he also makes sure to look her directly in the eyes and then wink very poorly when he says that her tits _are_ a big deal

they don't kiss when Henry starts teething and Emma is up at all hours of the night and she looks like fucking hell and Killian tells her so in no uncertain terms and basically, somehow, taking advantage of her sleep-deprived brain, manages to rope her into a teeth-sharing plan which basically includes her passing half of her insomnia onto him and Emma can't forgive him and at the same time can't love him enough and yeah, she loves him now and they've known each other for a year and they _haven't fucking kissed_ and what ever

/

they don't kiss when she asks him if he thinks maybe, possibly Liam would like to meet Henry and all Killian can do is nod and swallow and start planning the kind of lecture he'll give his brother, if he dares to voice any of his doubts about the _soundness of the situation,_ but Liam seems to think that if his brother is spending half his day around a certain baby – no matter whose it is – it probably isn't a terrible idea for him to meet said baby and Liam Jones may be a military man and he may have never gotten over the fact that he didn't manage to protect his little brother from all the evils of the world and he may have been determined to give Emma Swan a hard time for even the slightest hint of her using Killian but he is also putty in the hands of Henry Swan within 10 minutes

they don't kiss the first time she uses the key to his apartment and sneaks into his bedroom in the middle of the night – baby in her arms and her hair into the messiest bun that has ever been twisted and her damn sweatpants and her eyes all puffy and her whispered worries all about not being able to do it and being all alone and not being good enough and he just folds himself around both of them and tries to start the process of getting each ridiculous notion out of her head

they don't kiss when she tells Henry to spot throwing his food all over daddy and Killian just stands there – carrot puree all over his t-shirt, and watches as she continues whipping the eggs in front of her as if she didn't just- and he loves them both too damn much to point it out and risk having her take it back and bloody hell, he loves her now and they've been together for all intents and purposes for over a year now and _they haven't bloody kissed_ and good lord

/

She comes back from the store and heads directly to Killian's apartment and tries to calculate if she and Henry are spending more time at her place or at his at this point. But as soon as she opens the door and the smell hits her, her calculations are left outside in the cold and it's all she can do not to moan out loud. Turns out it wasn't just the little guy growing inside her that made her love Killian's pies.

She hears the low murmur of Killian's voice and decides to tiptoe into the kitchen as quietly as possible. She wants to look at them without giving her presence away just yet, when it's just _them_.

And sure enough Henry is tucked into Killian's left arm, his little fist twisted into the hair at the back of her boyfriend's neck (god, he is not her freaking boyfriend, along with Henry in his arms he is her entire fucking universe).

She knows what they are making already but she narrows her eyes as she realizes that she has never actually _seen_ Killian make his shepherd's pie.

"This is the only way I can make your mom eat these, Henry."

He twirls a broccoli in front of her son's little nose and Emma rolls her eyes. Partially because it's true and partially because the broccoli version is not her _most_ favourite.

"When you are old enough I'm gonna teach you how to make it on your own but for now I'll just show you how to make yourself a little forest."

She honestly doesn't know if it's the implication of _years_ to come in his promise, the fact that he says it so confidently, so easily, without any doubt, without any caveat of "if we are still together", without any alternative in his mind. Or if it's the fucking forest of broccoli that he is arranging around his chopping board like the most precious human being that he is.

Emma honestly doesn't know. But she does drop the bag she is carrying on the floor and she crosses the space between them in the time it takes Killian to turn around and open him mouth to greet her. And then she finally _finally_ feels his lips under her own.

He tastes even better than his damn pie.


	4. Parts of Us

Star Crossed Lovers + Curses + Jen's "We could just put Old Hook with Dark Swan. That'd be weird, right?"

* * *

In this one they are cursed.

.

She is 21 when the Dark One escapes.

Whether he found a way out, a weakness in the rusty bars, a traitor within the castle walls, whether the Evil Queen helped him, whether he was just biding his time all these years – no one knows.

But out he is and – like the first domino in a long and twisted line – once he goes, all hell breaks loose.

Her parents are dead within a year. Half the castle guards – and more than half the dwarves – fall during the Evil Queen's attack. There's a dragon in the sky. The castle is crumbling. The kingdom is burning.

Emma is away in Arendelle, looking for a way to defeat the Dark One – as far from the clutches of evil as her parents could send her – a way other than the only way they know of, coming to one cold, dead end after another.

There are stories. Sworn enemies, countless murders, age-old vendettas. Most dead, the rest having disappeared – meaning dead but minus the body. There is one – a ruthless sea captain – that catches her eye but the little well of information about him dries up soon enough and leaves her with an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach for days.

When she comes back and finds what is left of her family and kingdom – nothing, ruins, pain – it is no longer the Dark One she wants, he is just a means to an end now. The only way will do just fine now.

.

He is 45 when he hears that the Enchanted Forest is burning.

Funny. From his corner of the tavern it looks about the same as always. It takes some time for the news about the Dark One to reach his ears as well – or perhaps it takes awhile for him to be in any mood or condition to eavesdrop and learn what all the fuss is about. Dark One at large, Evil Queen resurfacing like a grotesque phoenix, Royal family dead, Princess on the war path.

Part of him thinks he would have cared. Some years ago. In another time, another world, another life.

But the part of him that felt his mum's long pale hands is dead now. The part of him that had absolute faith in his father has long since decomposed. The part of him that dreamt of a normal _free_ life is forgotten. The part of him that was Liam is gone. With it – the part of him that believed. The part of him that was Milah is gone. With it – the part of him that loved (and a hand). The part of him that craved revenge more than air has grown tired to the bone. The part of him that lived to pillage and plunder and has grown old. The part of him that thought of glory and heroics is long buried. The part that was Alice is gone. With it – every second chance.

He has lost so many parts. He does not know what he has left to care with.

.

She is 23 when she becomes the Dark One.

She is angry and foolish, ready for it and barely conscious of how the darkness slithers in, powerful and blind.

She will be 23 when she kills the Evil Queen.

She will be 23 forever.

.

He is 47 when the Queen's brand new lapdog guards capture him.

He would be flattered but they are as dumb as the old lot and he is going grey and soft around the middle and they underestimate him to an insulting – and laughable – extend.

But he doesn't laugh. He stumbles and grumbles and says he done nothin' and goes along, pretends to struggle while going along. Then he picks the lock and wanders. He wanders the Queen's new castle as if he is a highly respected guest and not an escaped prisoner. He does not much care if she catches him. He does not care enough if she kills him. He has the means to do it himself if she won't. Perhaps he is pushing his luck. Luck he's never had in anything but dice.

Perhaps he wants to see how far he can go before he falls off the face of the world.

But he is a pirate to his very core. And treasure he finds. Mapless, hookless, careless, he still finds it. He grits his teeth at the way his hook has been casually tossed on some rusty hanger. Not like the place of honour that has been given to _it_. An object that has defined his life almost as much as the metal appendage he clicks back into places as he eyes the simple lock. He knows there is no key for it. There is magic though. Dark, dark magic swirling around it and within it. He takes the pouch out of his innermost pocket. A little dark magic of his own – well, of fairies he dared to rob blind in one of those truly reckless years.

He looks around. Perhaps those are coming back to him.

But there is nothing to it. He has to try. If he fails and they catch him, he is sure he can find another way to off himself before the Queen has even chosen a collar for her new pet.

He pores the dark dust over the lock and his hand shakes only a little bit – only that amount that it always does now. The little specks eat at the metal but truly they eat at the magic and it smells like the inside of an old witch's hovel and it feels like the darkest and wettest night of the year. And then the lock falls away. And then he is holding it in his hand.

 _Emma Swan_

Once again he is surprised by how little he cares that life has just played another joke on him.

.

She has been in the Queen's dungeon for 2 months.

She was angry and foolish. She was blind.

Now she is almost ready. She knows she will get out eventually – she has to, she will, she is _immortal_. And when she does she won't be foolish, she will only be angry, raging, out of control. She can feel it running under her skin, sticking to her bones, slowing the blood in her veins – making it tar.

She is sitting in the dark, in her cell not high enough to stand up and not wide enough to stretch her legs in front of her. She is crouching. In the dark. And then she is summoned and suddenly she is standing and then she is falling – muscles sick with misuse and lack of food and light and life.

She lifts her gaze, heavy with hatred that evaporates traitorously fast when it does not get to feast its eyes on the Queen's hated old face.

It is another face – worn with time, covered with facial hair, animated by wild eyebrows, illuminated by the seas in his eyes. Set in hardness and suspicious and some distaste, almost disgust, and a little of her own rage and hatred – seeping out in much the same way too.

He is not who she wished to see. She is not who he wished to see.

Their hate is unquenched. Now they're empty.

.

He needs but a minute to know she poses no dread.

She can't stand at all and he can see in her eyes that she will rather crawl than admit it.

He considers. If he puts the dagger in the innermost pocket of his old coat, how easy will it be for her to reach it. How quickly will she plunge it in, if she is already in his arms. He searches for that last part of him, the one that must care. He can't find it.

He commands her to transport them to his ship and for a second he sees in her eyes how easily she can teach herself to hate him too. Then they are on deck. They are on the bloody deck and he rolls his eyes because she is the blasted Dark One and yet she is just a foolish girl.

He tucks the dagger away with less care than he should and picks her up with a grunt. His nights of carrying women around in his arms are a thing of the past for a reason. He walks down the steps. He kicks open the door to the captain's quarters. He deposits her on the bed.

She doesn't reach for the dagger once. He felt her ready herself for it at the very first rung. And then he felt her give it up when he told her to watch her head.

.

She sinks into a mattress for the first time in too many months.

He sets the dagger on his desk after setting her on his bed.

She knows she can lunge for it. She can make it that far. She can have it in her grasp before he reaches for the rusty sword in the corner. But she waits. The way she waited while he carried her down. Let him lay his one hand on her first, it will give her all the more pleasure to slice him through.

And he does. He shoves clothes and parchments and bottles and books and half-burnt candles to the side. He digs around in some big old chest that is such a cliché a different Emma in a different world might have laughed. Especially when what he takes out are towels. Purple towels. He brings in water and he fills the tub in the corner. The one opposite the corner with the sword. It takes him what feels like forever.

She must huff in impatience at some point. He gives her a look that says she should help, if she wants things to go faster.

He lays his hand on her and it is rough – calloused and warm and wet from all the water that sloshed around. She lets him. She helps him take off the dirty rags Regina loved putting her in – later she asks him to feed them to the fire – and this time when he picks her up she puts an arm around his neck – it helps her feel some control, helps her slow her descend as he lowers her into the tub. He is half-done washing her before she realizes he is only the third man who has ever seen her naked.

.

He takes an hour to get all the grime out of her hair.

Working with one hand doesn't come as an advantage but she seems to have reigned in her impatience. So he helps her bathe and dress in one of his stainless shirts and then he places her dagger on the bedcovers and goes above deck.

He takes the Jolly out to sea, his restless hands pick the course and then they dig up a bottle of rum and then some cheese that looks edible enough to only poison him a little – no more than the rum surely. And when he goes to his cabin to get some candles he staggers a little when he sees her still on his bed.

Her hair is wet and his shirt has fallen off one shoulder and the moonlight is drawing patterns over her naked legs and dipping her eyes in almost-blackness. He has held her in his arms and he has seen her as the day she was born and he only now realizes exactly how beautiful she is.

He wishes he could crawl into that bed with her. He wishes she wanted him to. He wishes he cared.

.

She stays on the ship for a week.

The first days she just lies there – Dark Ones need healing but they don't need sleep but sleep is the best healer so what is she to do. One day she doesn't see him at all and thinks he has fallen overboard or something utterly ridiculous. The last two days she goes up on deck and finds out exactly how disgruntled he can be in the morning when the sun purposefully shines in his eyes and his feet cooperate about as much as hers and how calm and confident and almost content he can look behind the helm in the afternoon light.

The first nights she just lies there – perhaps Dark Ones are meant to thrive in the darkness, perhaps that is why they don't sleep, she just seethes, that and grows increasingly bored. One night she calls for him and he comes. He is a little drunk and a little sweaty and a lot confused. No, she is not hungry. No, she is not going to murder him. Why, yes, she was planning to have her wicked way with him. He seems to go along with it as a joke at first, it's only when she cups him roughly through his pants that he seems to realize exactly what kind of punchline she is going for. His fingers fumble a little and it takes a bit of prompting and stroking to get him completely up and going but his tongue is a godsend and she thinks she should have his teeth marks on her hipbone forever. His scarred back and hand and stump and beard are rough, his stomach and hair and lips and whispers are soft. She doesn't give much thought to his skin and his muscles before she comes but after her orgasm something inside her growls and surges and she embarks on a mission to brand every inch of skin and make every muscle tense. He doesn't close his eyes when he comes and he tries to shift his weight off her immediately after and she doesn't know which one she is angrier about. The last two nights he comes into his own cabin and sits at the desk, nursing his glass of rum and flipping through some old sketches until she invites him under the covers.

The day he makes her laugh under the spray on deck is the night he doesn't find her in his bed.

.

He hasn't set foot on land in three months when he hears that the Queen is dead.

He made port the day after she left with his shirt and her dagger and – later, much later, he finds out – one of his older rings. He stocked up well. 2:3 ratio, food to rum. He unfurled the Jolly's sails and didn't see another soul for the next three months.

He doesn't know how long the Queen has been dead when he drops anchor and goes straight to the nearest tavern. Part of him wants to ask her how it feels – to have your revenge, to live past it. He realizes some part of him cares.

He curses and drinks up.

.

She has been the Dark One for only three years when she hears the name Dark Swan for the first time.

She wonders if Rumplestiltskin ever mastered the art of shapeshifting. She wonders how much more powerful than him she is already and she grins. She doesn't much care for peasants – her former subjects or otherwise. Sometimes she kills witches. Once she terrorizes an entire coven. It has little to do with their leader's previous involvement with a certain pirate. That is the truth. She has no problem admitting truths to herself now.

Yes, she learnt to turn into a swan so, when she feels the need, she can watch people – watch him – without showing herself. No, she did not try to learn more about him. Yes, she heard Mother Gothel's story by simple chance. No, she did not massacre her cover just because of it. Yes, she made her suffer for it.

.

He is 50-something in body and 250-something in mind, soul, grief.

He is letting himself slip too much. There are still plenty of people who would love to take his head, maybe his other hand first – make him completely helpless. He does a fine job of that all by himself one night.

They are four or five but to be fair they might be just a couple or they might be a dozen. He is drunk and in the mud before he knows it and he _doesn't_ care. Maybe however many years he has accumulated in his marrow and in the lines on his face are enough.

He laughs a little when they try to bait him, to taunt him. A man is well-aware of it when he grows powerless, pointless and pathetic, when he loses his fight, fame and faith, and no one can spit it at him with as much venom as he can himself. But he thinks he might get his hook a bit dirty after all, if they keep droning on and hammering his headache in deeper.

She seems to have similar thoughts. Because in a move quicker than he expected from his wanna-be-assassins one draws his sword and then his entire arm just flies out of its socket, then he flies right after it. The rest are more gruesome and if Killian wasn't half-unconscious, he'd probably give her a look that should tell her exactly how much he doesn't appreciate being covered in guts.

But in the next second she is magicking them away and he is just aware enough to notice that she still transports them on top of the blasted deck.

.

She gives him two minutes before she hauls his ass to his quarters.

She can fill the clawfoot tub with just a flick of her hand and so she does. She can undress him with another but she doesn't. She takes off each piece of clothing one by one, wrinkling her nose at his shirt. He doesn't make a sound while she washes him and she doesn't know if he can't or simply has no wish to.

She doesn't bother dressing him. She throws a towel at him and then a bottle that must have contained rum at some point but now, shockingly enough, contains water. She waits for him to sit up in bed and groan about his ribs and his head before she climbs in. She asks if he can get it up and he growls at her.

.

He lasts all of ten minutes.

She doesn't seem particularly surprised or bothered and he honestly didn't know he still had pride to wound but wounded it is. So he turns on his side and more or less passes out with the full knowledge that he might never see her again.

Except see her he does. In the afternoon light streaming through his small window. She is sitting at the foot of his bed and flipping through what he almost immediately recognizes as one of his captain logbooks, she has one of his mugs on the floor beside her and the smell of overly sweet coffee is in the air and her fingers are distractedly stroking his ankle.

He drags her back into bed in a manner that might be consider slightly barbaric. But the speed and willingness with which she straddles his head tells him he is not going to be turned into a toad over it just yet.

Her nails are wicked and merciless things and her teeth doubly so. Her tights clench first around his head and then around his hips with a power that he hasn't encountered before in his life. He can't keep his hand off her ass and he gets rid of his qualms about fondling her breasts with his stump as best as he can. Her mouth seems to have a particular investment in the skin over his collarbone. He is surprised when she doesn't resist his kiss. He is something else entirely when he feels the shape of his own ring dig into his skin where she cups his cheek.

.

She stays for almost two weeks.

She peruses most of his library while he sleeps and she startles him awake at least once every night. Once she tips over the chair that she is balancing her feet on while sitting on his desk. Sometimes she pushes some trinket or rock off the shelves. Twice she breaks the glass she is drinking from and once the bottle. More often than not, while her eyes are still flying over the pages, her free hand gets a little too active where it has buried itself in his hair, wrapped itself around his ankle, folded itself around his left wrist or run into the greying forest on his chest.

He mutters something about clumsy Dark Ones one night and she doesn't let him go back to sleep until the sun is up.

The night he doesn't wake up is the night she leaves.

.

He has known the Dark Swan for some four years.

Doesn't seem like a whole lot. Doesn't matter that he doesn't even know all that much about her. Word on the street, on the seas, in the forests or wherever you choose to listen for it, is that he is the way to the Dark Swan.

It is a funny thing. Very much of the double-edged variety.

Those who are afraid of her – which is most of everybody – give him a wider berth than they probably would've even in his most bloody-thirsty years. Those foolish enough to swallow their fear and make a grab for her usually do try to get to him first. Some he dispatches himself, some he only hears about days after they're dead, some she turns into a bit of a show.

He almost feels bad for the ones that don't fall under his own hook.

He spent years, decades, centuries, searching for the Dark One's weak spot. Now he is that very spot. The irony is not lost on him.

.

She stays away for months.

She has been appearing on the Jolly every other week for months. Sometimes she stays for a moment, sometimes she stays for a day. Sometimes he sees her, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes they fuck and drink, sometimes she just lies beside him and reads his books.

It is the last logbook. The black ink blurs in front of her eyes, the page grows and grows until it swallows her whole. The word lodges itself in her darkening heart. Dreamshade.

She kicks him out of his bed. Then she throws him across the room. She pins him to the wall.

He had a way. He could have done it. He could have ended it. He could have saved them all.

He pants but doesn't struggle. She has to give it to him, he catches on pretty quickly. It is when she realizes that she is choking him and lets him drop to the floor that she sees he knew long before her, hated himself long before she got the opportunity to hate him.

He could have saved them. He could have saved her.

.

He is under lock for days.

The story goes like this. Dark One pisses off powerful, centuries-old wolf pack. Wolf pack gets too close to making pirate their chew toy. Dark One decorates forest with their entrails.

It's what you'll hear at every tavern, inn and port north, south, west and east of the Enchanted Forest.

Here's what he can add.

Dark One terrorizes the forests so she doesn't upturn the seas. Pirate knows all too well how to toast to his mistakes and wallow in his misery, knows how to self-flagellate himself, knows what to deny himself – she has already denied him herself, next comes the water. Pirate finds himself inland then he finds himself with his throat inside a wolf's jaw. Dark One rages, Dark One threatens… Dark One cries, Dark One begs. Wolves miss the chance to send him to Hades. Wolves greet the ferryman in his place.

Now for the fun part.

Dark One is mad. Mad with rage, mad with disappointment, mad with weakness. Pirate ends up under lock.

Mind you, he wouldn't call it a prison. If this is a cell then his own cabin must be the most abysmal dungeon. He takes the time to recover, then he gives _her_ time to recover. Then it becomes too much. He doesn't care if it's punishment or protection.

He picks another lock, in another dangerous woman's castle. This time he doesn't wander. He seeks. He finds.

.

She has been collecting them for a year.

Even during the last months, even while she wanted to rip his balls off and feed them to him.

Some are locked in dreamcatchers, some in looking glasses, contained in witch balls, documented on paper. Some are just moments, flashes of a life, some are whole histories, sprawling tales of romance and adventure.

She sits in the middle of it all. She must look crazy. It's not precisely how she feels. But it comes as close to it as she can put into words that exist.

He takes a hand mirror, his brows furrowed and darting between it and her, her and it. Her and the madness around them. She waves a hand and then he _sees._

She can't recall what it is in that little mirror, what they are. She supposes it's not one of her favourites. She knows her favourites at a glance.

But it doesn't matter. They all hold the same thing. Deep down. When it gets down to the basics. To the stardust of it. To them.

She is a princess and he is a young lieutenant, she is a clumsy witch and he is a cocky knight tasked with her capture, she is some sort of officer of the law and he is most certainly on the wrong side of it, she is a blood-sucking fiend and he is her sire, she is a queen and he is the prisoner she can't bring herself to execute, she is his wife, he is the father of her children, he is a prince and she is the peasant girl that sells him seashells, he is a werewolf and she is his mate, he is a deckhand and she is the brazen wench that takes his virtue, he is a pirate captain and she is the Savior, he is the love of her life, she is the love of his life.

"Emma-"

"We were meant to be."

She stands and turns in a circle and she can feel the woosh of it all around her. Their lives. Their happy beginning and endings. Through times and worlds. Eternity. True Lo-

She crashes into him and he stumbles, trying to hold her up anyway. He won't hold her much longer. He is more white than grey now. His face is a story of goodbyes that took too long and second chances that never quite happened. His eyes still illuminate it all.

"We weren't meant to be like this."

"But we are."

She goes down, takes him with her. She pushes him down roughly, climbs on top of him like a bug, like a puppy, like a child, tucks her head under his chin, speaks to his heart.

"I shouldn't have done it."

"I could've-"

"I shouldn't have done it."

"Shhh."

"I shouldn't have done it."

.

He looks for two years before he finds a bean.

Then all he wants to do is throw it back to the mermaids.

He doesn't know how long he can do it. He doesn't want to live forever in this decaying body. He doesn't want to live forever with the little demons on that island and the bigger demons inside him.

He doesn't want her to live with hers.

He gives it to her and prays she doesn't ask. He thinks it might be the only prayer she has ever answered.

When she reaches through the portal, he is a second too late to realize what she is reaching for.

.

She learns to sail in a month.

It takes her longer than shapeshifting and teleportation and potions and she is still bad at it and she thinks it's just one of those things she will never get in this life.

But she learns to read the stars and she learns to sense the winds and she learns that he is ticklish only on the right and she learns that her knees bruise very easily and she learns that there are certain songs you don't sing on board and she learns that he has twice as many scars from stab wounds as he does burn marks and whip lines to top them both and she learns that she feels a shiver down her spine every time he calls her "Swan" and she learns how close their kiss can come to pushing the darkness away at dawn.

.

He knows they will be telling stories about her for centuries.

He might be part of them now. He doesn't know if he will be in a dozen years. He doesn't know what part they would give him. He doesn't know if they will label him a failure.

Because in the end he gets what he wanted. In the end, it goes the way he thought it would years ago.

He goes and the Dark One goes with him.

The last part of him.


End file.
